San Andres Island Day 1

In a city that sways with the wind and takes every day as it comes, we should have never been running through the airport in a mad dash to catch our flight. Leaving two hours early from our hotel, we intended to give ourselves enough time to arrive at the airport and kick our feet up on a chair with plenty of time to kill. If only we weren’t stuck in traffic for an hour and half due to an unknown back up, we would have walked in the door instead of flinging our things onto the counter with only 20 minutes to spare. How we made it on the plane, I will never understand.

Just three weeks earlier, five of us were notified that we had been accepted to be a part of the English Immersion program to 180 Colombian Teachers from all over the country. The biggest perk? It would be on the tropical island of San Andres in the middle of the Caribbean.  This beautiful paradise would be our home for the next month. I couldn’t have been more excited, but also wasn’t sure how anything was really going to work until the last minute (quite literally). We were told just the day before what time we would be flying out and given a rough overview of what we could expect on the island, including teaching, living, transportation and safety.

A view from the beach outside of where we are staying.

If the Peace Corps hadn’t already prepared us well in the past year for the unknown, I’m not sure I would have been so accepting of how things unraveled. But, since Colombia and the Peace Corps have tested us many times before, we packed our things, showed up when we were told to, even when it was last minute, and nodded yes to everything. And eventually, yes, we did make it here just as the rains picked up and moistened our suitcases, covering them like a welcoming hug.

Although it was dark when we arrived, we took a brief tour across the island to see the lights of the small town. As we made our way to the houses that we would be guests at, living with the locals of the island, our driver made various stops to pick things up along the way that he needed. After a run to the pharmacy, he pulled over to let his wife jump in as his grandson made room for her in the front seat now sitting three wide. Señor Eligio would roll his window down and poke his head out into the rain, his Creole echoing across the street to the store owner for an order of mangos. This new language was so brilliantly foreign to me. I loved it immediately for the way it mocks English so playfully. As my temporary host mom on the island, Narissa, explained, English is our primary language but Creole will always be our first; it’s what we speak at home and with our families. As if two official languages would suffice for an island of only 80,000 people, Spanish is intermixed as yet another mode of communication. After all, we are still technically in Colombia. A land of trilinguals, how intriguing.

“San Andres has received you with rain,” Senor Eligio told as he lowered our suitcases from the back of the van. “But soon the sun will come out, don’t worry.” We thanked him and told him we would see each other again in the morning.

“So I can keep it?” he asked signaling to the umbrella that he held with a tight grip under the weight of the rain. “Until tomorrow, Eligio,” we smiled back at him. “Ok,” he agreed and hurried through the rushing curtains of water with the umbrella over head.

The ‘posada’ where we are staying on San Andres

My friend Isaura (pictured above) and I will be staying here until Monday where we will then be flying out to the neighboring island of Providence. So we hear, it’s about a half an hour flight on one of the smallest planes I’ve seen. According to my experiences of nausea on planes, I’m considering swimming. If I survive, we will be doing the English Immersion program for a second group of Colombia teachers until early December. The internet is hit or miss, so I hope my next update can be soon!

One last picture of this funky thing I found. It weighs more than my head…

Bread fruit, a popular starchy fruit that grows all over the island.

You Are Alive

I didn’t go to school today. No, there was no holiday or planned schedule change or any other reason other than the fact that I just didn’t want to go. So I didn’t. Which sounds pretty bad ass apart from the pendulum of emotions that existed in my conscious swinging toward the insistence that my decision was a poor one. Here’s how the conundrum of my brain panned out at 8am:

–”Why are you still in bed?”

–I’m not going to school today, I told you this last night”

–You should really get up, your teacher’s going to need you today.

–She hasn’t been ambitious about my stellar English skills this entire semester, why today?

–Well, you never know what other things that you might be missing out on. What if Shakira shows up to your school?

–Good thought, but no. I’m dedicating my time to being productive today. No more sitting around.

–…..Is that not what you’re doing now?

–I SAID I’M NOT GOING

So I wrestled myself out of bed because if I wasn’t going to school I was at least going to check something off of the To Do list. So after crossing off Get Out of Bed, I scratched off Eat Breakfast and then high fived my ambitious body. I sent out a few emails and finalized some planning for a secondary project. Wiping my hands clean I looked at the clock and sighed. It was still only 9:30am and my conscious was well aware that, yes, I could still make it to school for a few hours. I could have made a thousand excuses for why it was a good decision to stay home. For example, is it not equally wrong to impose help on someone who doesn’t want help? Like giving a cactus water every day, as I’ve learned, it just doesn’t need that much love. So let’s say, I’m taking the “cactus approach” with my teacher, just letting her bask in the sun while I hold back the watering can.

So instead of focusing on the one thing that I did not do, I started to write a list of all of the things that I did do this year. At first I really struggled. I made a goal to try and write at least 10 things that, big or small, have been real accomplishments. But once I reached 10, it quickly turned into 15. I stopped, scratched my head, chewed on the pen cap for a bit and kept going until suddenly I was numbering 20 and then eventually 30 pat-on-the-back moments. Granted, “#6 Having a Developed Prefrontal Cortex” did make the list, solely based on the fact that I’ve made more good decisions than bad this year. Also making an appearance, I listed mastering a second language, running a 10K in the Devil’s heat, surviving a 12 hour hike, starting a grant proposal, learning yoga, and acting accordingly at foreign birthday parties. I held up the list after punctuating the 30th line and nodded in recognition of my success. Scanning it over, I realized that some things were accomplished at my school while others out of school but most were unplanned, unexpected and certainly unforced, which is not to say that they didn’t flourish without persistence and hard work. Now with this list in hand I could see that, although I may have come short of my goals at school this year, I have certainly achieved unintended goals elsewhere. Whether planned or unplanned, moments of success cannot be defined by original intentions.

I felt more at ease now, but knew something was still missing. Something that would have only made the above list possible. Something not so easily achieved and yet so easily overlooked. I began to think about all of the obstacles that have stood in the way to get me where I am today; all of the decisions that I have made or could have made or simply did not make but resulted all the same in the brilliant moments of life which have unraveled themselves in my 24 years. None of which would have been possible without the simple fact of existence. So immediately after the last line, I jotted down the miraculous accomplishment “You are alive.” And I smiled.

The Elevator Ride

The infamous chart tracking a Peace Corps volunteer’s experience throughout their two years shows that I’m right on point. At first I rejected it, thinking that I knew myself better than any lump sum graph that generalizes an entire population of more than 215,000 people. I thought I was unique in at least one way or another but, as it turns out, I’m pretty average (in terms of a Peace Corps volunteer). Silently reassuring myself that I’m still special, I find myself referring to the chart more and more these days. Just before I took my trip home in August, I was plunging into the depths steadily. I gritted my teeth and hit bottom pretty hard but held on because that silly little chart kept telling me that the switch would eventually flip.

To help you get a better idea, here’s an example. It’s kind of like hopping on an elevator only to realize that it’s going down to the basement instead of up like you thought. So you ride it patiently at first while getting more and more frustrated that it’s going at a snail-like pace in the exact opposite direction of the 12th floor. Then it gets worse when four smelly people get on and you’re just hoping that their next stop is the first floor. But then the electricity goes out and you’re stuck there, together. Panic. And you’re not there for 5 minutes, you’re there for like 5 hours. But you keep reassuring yourself that it’s ok because maybe these creepy individuals are really great people with a crazy back story to their smelliness. Or maybe they’re into Taekwondo and couponing, both of which you could learn a lesson on. Maybe, just maybe you might form a relationship with them one day, or soon because you might be dying with them in a very tight space. And just when you’ve exhausted all of your mental imagery, you finally invest in a real conversation with them because, heck, why not. And then 5 hours later the lights flicker on and relief sets in as you’re all moving up together. And what you used to worry about seems so silly now that you reach over and give those pungent people a big bear hug because you survived, and that’s a nice feeling, smelly or not.

(I came up with that by myself just now. Maybe you’ve had a similar experience.) So anyways, that’s where I am now, metaphorically between the basement and the high hopes of reaching the 12th floor. But the lights are on and I’m movin’ on up. Things feel nice here. Like the time last week when I finally made it back to the exercise park after about a month of not going. The guard who watches the front entrance noticed my absence and stretched his hand out to shake mine. “Sista! Where hov ya been?!” (I like to pretend his English accent would be Jamaican rasta.) Or the time the empanada man caught onto my Wednesday routine and now has a chicken empanada ready for me at 6:00pm. “Con gusto mi niña.” Or every time that the corner store asks if I want ‘the usual’ because they know I always ask for 6 eggs. “Seis huevitos cierto?”

Between Peace Corps volunteers, we always comment on how begrudgingly long our service seems at times, yet we would never shorten it to anything less. We simply wouldn’t have enough time to falter between the ups and downs to really understand what we’re doing here and how to go about it. You really have to enjoy the moments of difficulty, if not appreciate them, because the results will be even greater in the end. Even though I’ve made it out of the basement, so to speak, I know that there will be many stops along the way to the 12th floor. Nothing valuable is ever a walk in the park, which is why this year I’ll be focused on the journey rather than the destination.

“There is no need to struggle. Enjoy every step you make. Every step brings you home to the here and the now. This is your true home–because only in this moment, in this place, can life be possible. We have already arrived.”

-Thich Nhat Hanh

Home.

After a year of being in Colombia, I was finally able to go home to see my friends and family that I had missed undescribably. The first 12 months of my service had been a rollercoaster of emotions; first going through the elated highs and excitement and then swooping down into the lows of reality and everyday challenges, and ultimately surfacing to a happy medium, only to grab hold of the chaos going, “What…was…THAT?!” I sat on the plane during my first flight into Miami with a thousand thoughts running through my head. My worst fears being that I had over idolized the United States and misremembered how things actually are; that roses don’t grow on every street corner and people don’t hand out free money. Ok, an exaggeration of my actual thoughts, but a very real interpretation of my fear: disappointment. All of these thoughts and all of these emotions that came swirling up to clog my brain suddenly dissipated the instant I saw my mom standing at the end of the gate with open arms. It was finally clear to me that nothing else mattered, I was home.

Homerun

The ride from the airport and for the rest of my visit, I was often asked how I was feeling, how I was doing and did I feel weird being back. The answer to the latter was no. Previously I thought that I might have felt like a foreigner in my own country, but in fact it was quite the opposite. I felt like I was right where I belonged. But anybody who knows me, knows that where I belong is not where I tend to stay for long. My mind is too curious to be stagnant for an extended period. So, while enjoying my brief visit, I soaked up the comforts of home the incredible food and all of the long-awaited love; I had wonderful conversations with friends, and I laughed harder than I had in a long time. The people who I hadn’t been able to talk to for over a year fit so naturally back into my life, disproving my doubts that things would be different. I remember coming back from Peru after a five month leave thinking that it was disappointing that nothing had changed. Now, after being away from home for more than double that time, I’m actually grateful that things are nearly the same as I left them. If the people and places were different, then it might feel a little less like home. Flying in past Lambeau Field and hearing the thick Green Bay accent being called over the speaker was a warming reassurance.

My trip was exactly what I needed to recharge my batteries for round two as I said my goodbyes at the airport; a deja vu experience to the year prior. After a day of flight connections and lazy naps on the plane, I landed back in Barranquilla and made my way to the bus station to take the next transportation back to Santa Marta. Hauling all of my luggage up four flights of stairs, I dropped it in my room and slept for the next 10 hours. Waking up groggy, I reminded myself of where I was and realized that it was time to get my life back in order. So to school I went, where I was greeted with shouts of joy and hugs. Since then it has been a hectic couple of weeks. If you remember from my last post, the new volunteers had just been arriving as I was making my way back to the U.S. They’re currently going through training which means that volunteers from my group are now chosen to give sessions and share our experiences from the first year. Between going back and forth to Barranquilla (about 2 and half hours away) and moving into a new house, I’ve had my hands full.

Update: My new house is wonderful, I still live with the same people and in the same apartment building but in the next tower. It’s a little bit smaller, but equally wonderful. More cozy!

Meeting the new volunteers is exciting, and I think they’ll be great to work with from listening to their experiences and all of the new ideas they bring. It’s difficult to miss school and valuable class time with my students, but giving training sessions is also a nice change of pace to keep me busy during these first few weeks back in Colombia.

I have neglected my blog for quite some time now which means that you haven’t been able to get updates, but it hasn’t been on purpose! There are many new changes here, which I think is why they say that your second year in the Peace Corps goes by so quickly. For now, I’m trying to grasp onto everything and really enjoy my time before it goes by. I’m realizing now that this won’t last forever, and the things that I love the most won’t always be around. Despite the struggles, there come waves of happiness that I could never put into words. I loved going home to my family, but coming back has also shown me how much I enjoy my Peace Corps life as well. It’s where I have been challenged, where I have grown, and where I have learned to be the person that I want to be. And in a paradoxical way, when my family encouraged me to leave, not only once but twice, it only made me love them that much more. How can you not love those who allow you to do the things that make you love yourself? (Go you, Mom!)

And to all of those who I was able to see, and to those who I sadly was not during my brief time home, I want to thank you. Thank you for all of your encouraging words and your listening ear as I rambled on about incomprehensible nonsense about third world struggles. The importance of relationships has never been made as clear to me as it has this past year; after all they’ve gotten me where I needed to go, so here’s a part from one of my favorites “Oh the Place You’ll Go!”

…And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)

-Dr. Seuss

12 Months to 12 Days

Twelve whole months until I would see my family and friends again have turned into just twelve days. Ironically, my flight for a short trip home will be leaving on the very day that I arrived to Colombia one year ago. Just as well, the new group of ambitious volunteers, motivated and nervous to begin a life in Colombia, will be landing at the same airport only a few hours after I depart. It’s amazing to think where I was a year ago, in their very same position. So many things have happened since I stood in that airport for the first time with my heart in my throat trying to swallow down reality.

So what have you accomplished in the past twelve months?

An entire year has gone by like the 24 others in my life, but this one has been incomparable to the rest. I have gone through tremendously difficult and incredibly joyous moments this year. Perhaps due to the circumstances of my location or rather in part due to the critical age that has brought me through such impacting life realizations. Whatever the case may be, the things that have been taken away from me and those that have found their way into my life have done so by nothing short of a miracle. This has been one of the greatest lessons learned upon finishing my first year. Change is an inevitable occurrence that will forever be a part of life; people will come and go, places will change and I will continue to grow and learn. It’s how we cope with these changes and constantly new experiences that defines a person. Strangely, I’ve welcomed the feeling that comes with being in immensely uncomfortable situations, having conversations with people of differing opinions and coming to conclusions that I would have previously disregarded, pushed under the rug.

So what have you been doing for the past twelve months?

Unknowingly, I used to want to control things. I used to think that I had the power and determination to sway life one way or another. Admittedly, there are days where I still do. But letting things go, allowing them to simply be, and knowing that if even I have only myself at the end of the day, that will be enough. My loneliest moments have taught me to look within, to find happiness in myself, and my most successful days have taught me to rejoice alongside others, knowing that nothing is ever achieved individually. So clearly it seems that it takes confidence to stand alone, but it demands courage and an intense amount of humility to work with others; to ask for their opinions and genuinely cherish them.

So what have you achieved in the past twelve months?

A lot can happen in twelve months if you let it. To say that I’m cognitively, physically and emotionally exhausted comes short of actuality, but I do not regret for one moment the limits to which I’ve been stretched. But the Peace Corps has not done this, life has demanded it of me and it will always continue to do so. I have felt things more intensely and seen things more vividly. I’ve created incredible relationships and have chosen to leave meaningless friendships behind. I’ve rocked the single life for far too long, yet I’ve felt more love than ever before. Love, as I’ve come to understand it now, is much different than I’d ever thought of it before. It’s the love for what I do, the love for life, the love for giving and expecting nothing in return that can’t be replicated in fairytale novels or fictitious fantasies.

“Love is not a reaction. If I love you because you love me, that is a mere trade, a thing to be bought in the market; it is not love. To love is not to ask anything in return, not even to feel that you are giving something—and it is only such love that can know freedom.” –Jiddu Krishnamurti

So what have you been working on for the past twelve months?

I’ve questioned nearly everything I thought to be true and reflected on the many mistakes that I’ve made in my life. One year is not enough to completely understand what life is, but it’s certainly a good start. My life here is much more than what people see or imagine. It’s something that cannot be put into words or be captured in pictures. It’s something that can only be experienced. So if I were here to pose for pictures or promote the Peace Corps I would only be failing in the end. I’m not working for others, I’m working with others and in doing so I’m working to develop myself. The situations I face outside of my comfort zone work to push me, to achieve better things and develop a sense of self that I am proud of. I’m not perfect, I’m not always pleasant, and there are days when I’ve lost all patience, but I’m a work in progress.

So if you were to ask me what I’ve been working on for the past twelve months, I would tell you that I’ve been working on myself.

My resume may be filled with an attractive list of what you may consider achievements, but those to me are just things. I can tell you that I’ve led educational conferences, that I inspired a child to learn English, or that I was able to get my kids baseball equipment this year, but all of these things are not what I’ve been working on. I’ve been working on myself, and only after which, these things have come as a result of my own self progress. Because without self-love, there is no love to give.

 

Please click the ‘Follow’ button on the Homepage to keep up on my life as I roll on into my second year. Thank you kindly for all of the love and support that I’ve felt, near and far, from friends, family and complete strangers who have found inspiration through shared experiences. All comments have an important place in my heart to inspire me to keep on keepin’ on. Xoxo -Ash

The Consequences of Choice

It was nearly midnight when I realized that my lesson plan for the following day was not going to work. In fact, it was going to be a disaster. All week I had worked on what I thought were going to be the most successful 90 minutes of teaching yet; but there I lie in bed, unable to sleep, thinking that my students were going to look at me with dazed eyes of confusion as I told them what my plan was. It was Thursday night and nearly two hours after the usual time that I went to bed. Waking up at 5:30am would be as unpleasant as the day would be long.

So what made me second guess my ostensibly flawless plans? First, let me back up to Monday, four days earlier, where I sat clutching my new favorite book by Daniel Pink, “Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.” I turned page after page (figuratively, that is, because the Kindle has sadly killed the beloved paperback). Unable to put it down, I was inspired by his theory of intrinsic motivation stating that, “Human beings have an inherent tendency to seek out novelty and challenges, to extend and exercise their capacities, to explore, and to learn.”

Oppositely, if we teach through extrinsic rewards (“if-then” rewards) by offering a shiny new bike or colorful iPod at the next raffle drawing once they reach a certain level in Reading, students will ultimately learn LESS. But how can this be? We see that these systems often do work. The problem that comes into play, however, is how long they actually work and to what degree the students are motivated to learn over the span of a lifetime. By incentivizing a student to reach a target level in Math by offering a free coupon, she will undoubtedly work to accomplish that goal; but once she does, she will stop there. Goal setting stops, reading stops and learning stops until yet another bigger and better reward is offered.

To avoid such detrimental cycles, Pink encourages a self-guided approach in all areas of life, particularly in the work place, but also in student learning. “How creative a person feels when working on the project, is the strongest and most pervasive driver,” he argues. Therefore, teachers must give students the support they need and let them run with their creativity to accomplish their goals and pursue their interests. Succinctly stated, “Autonomous motivation promotes greater conceptual understanding; better grades, enhanced persistence at school, and in sporting activities, higher productivity, less burnout, and greater level of psychological well-being.”

There it was, let students do what they do, with a little guidance of course. Walla! I had an epiphany. I would give my students the space for creativity to do whatever inspired them at the end of class, with a little direction of course. The only requirement would be to create something relevant to the material learned, and it must be something useful (a poster, a news article, a song etc.) I had my presentation and my speech ready to get students fired up about learning and I was ready to be the best teacher I could be for my students.

But then it was midnight the night before and I couldn’t sleep. It made so much sense earlier that week and now it made no sense at all.

Here’s why: I finished Daniel Pink’s book on Wednesday and picked up another book on Thursday, “The Art of Choosing” by Sheena Iyengar, which would toss my brain into a fuddled mess, but only later. My morale was high as I read, “People with little control over their work… experienced more back pain, missed more days of work due to illness in general, and had higher rates of mental illness.” I remember thinking to myself, “Phew, I’m glad I’m avoiding that mess by offering my students unlimited choice and control over their learning!” The author continued, “…minor but frequent choice making can have a disproportionately large and positive impact on our perception of overall control.” I was on a real winning streak.

And then everything came apart at the seams as I rounded the corner and ran face first into her argument of Individualistic and Collectivist societies. “Ultimate happiness (in collectivist societies) comes not from making the choice but in the fulfillment of one’s duties.” In one study, a collectivist culture on average, “listed twice as many domains in which they did not want choice as compared to domains in which they did. They often wanted someone else to decide… Comparing responses between the two, Americans desired personal choice in four times as many domains of life…”

Culture! The difference in culture, hello!! How could I miss the single most important thing I have learned in my 11 months of service?? And there it was, on a comprehensive ranking system for a country’s level of collectivism, “South American countries tend to rank quite high.” And to squander any optimism I had left that my plan might work, her experiments in an elementary school showed that, “Anglo American children did better and worked longer when they were able to exercise personal choice. The moment anyone else told them what to do, their performance and subsequent motivation dropped dramatically. By comparison, the Asian American children performed best and were most motivated when they believed their mothers had chosen for them.”

My plan was in shambles. It was now midnight.

I couldn’t possibly walk into that classroom pretending to ignore this blatant evidence that my plan was going to flop. I had new knowledge, and I had a choice (and Americans love choice!) So rather than debunking my previous theory, I decided to perform a small psychological test on my students. Here’s what I did:

1. I told my students that the last 20 minutes of class would be reserved for work time. Therefore, they wouldn’t have to worry about homework and they could turn in their assignment before they left (also so that I could see the results).

2. Each student received a slip of paper stating what they should work on. I told students not to confer with their classmates which assignment they were given (collectivist societies love direction!) since each person’s would be different

3. Half of the students were told to write a dialogue. They were given only one choice.
   The other half of students were given three choices (to write a dialogue, a news article or to create a pamphlet).

4. I randomly passed them out, alternating the two different papers to every other student, and watched them as they got to work. After the 20 minutes were up, I told students that they may leave if they felt they were finished or they could stay if they chose to work on their assignment longer. I recorded the times that each of their work was turned in.

Here’s what I found:

I analyzed their work in three different areas including number of mistakes, the time they chose to work on the assignment and the overall word count to measure the length of writing. The results came as predicted. On average, the students who were given only one option worked over two minutes longer than those given three options. When dividing the number of mistakes by the total word count, those who had only one option also had a more than 4% better accuracy rating than their counterparts. They tended to make fewer mistakes, therefore boosting their grades. Most impressive, the students who had three options wrote fewer than 100 words total, whereas their classmates with only one option wrote nearly 130 words on average.

As a stared at my Excel worksheet of data with my head on my hand, I couldn’t deny that Sheen Iyengar’s same findings were true. What I thought would be best for my students turned out to be one of the worst things that I could have done for them. The moment I tried to apply what I knew from my own experiences and my own culture, the effectiveness of my teaching took a plummet. Although it was with good intention, my failure to see a culture’s deeply rooted influences was potentially damaging. However, critical thinking saved what could have been a disastrous situation. I was faced with a problem that required investigation, planning, adjustment, re-planning, analysis and ultimately reflection; a lot of work but an even greater pay off to the benefits it will bring to my future in education, I’m sure. I share this with you not only because it was a very real learning point in my service, but also in hopes that it will inspire you to apply the same careful consideration to your own life for the sake of the people around you as well. We must not only be tolerant of other cultures, but also conscious of our actions.

Moments With Milagros

“I just like touching your hair,” she says, distracted in the middle of our English lesson. “Don’t think I’m weird.”

I gently reassure her that I understand. My patience always seems infinite when I take my seat on Tuesdays next to Milagros in her 6th grade classroom; her desk removed from the others’ so that she can be nearer to the teacher. I know that physical touch is a sign of affection; of interest, rather. Her hands are not only for feel, but also for sight, because Milagros is blind.

She, along with three other students in my school, make their way to class every day accompanied by a classmate since the infrastructure has no accommodated resources for their guidance. They count their steps or listen to the voices of the other students shouting to know that they are passing the outdoor courtyard which doubles as a patio for gym class. Without braille labels to reassure them that they are in the correct classroom, they would assuredly be lost without their classmates or the loving help of a teacher passing by.

“Do you like how pretty my nails are, Miss Ashley?” she asks, extending her hands over her desk for me to see.

“They look wonderful,” I respond sincerely. “Did you pick out the Hello Kitty design?”

“Yes,” she says, with the biggest smile on her face that I’ve seen from my students.

I’m inspired every day that I work with Milagros. Her vigor and cheer radiate like an aura for those around her and it’s hard not to capture that same feeling. To think that her seeing impairment might bring her down is simply not the case. It’s a way of life, and she chooses to live it well. When I look at her I see ambition, strength and courage all wrapped up in such a small little girl.

“How old are you, Miss Ashley?”

“I’m 24,” I tell her.

“Oh, you seemed younger.”

I laugh and ask her how she might have gotten that impression. When we think of age, the first indicator for most people is physical characteristics; wrinkles and widening hips, thinning hair and the inevitable drooping of the unmentionables. But she has no indication of these to know that all of these are fortunately intact.

“You just have a young vibe;” as if 24 were old.

Age is abstract when you’re 12 years old, but she had made a good point. Age is just a number, like we always hear. Except for her, it really is. She can’t gauge a person’s age based on the lines of their face, but she can tell you what level of vivacity they hold by simply being in their presence. A beautiful thing, really, and one of the many lessons I’ve learned from Milagros.

“And how old are you?” I ask her, playing along.

“I’m 12” she replies.

“Oh, I thought you were 20,” I tell her, watching as her draw drops.

“Miss Ashley! Don’t call me old!” she cries, laughing hysterically.

I ask her why she wouldn’t want to be older. Neither her reaction, nor her answer to my question were what I thought she might say. I find it hard to believe that she wouldn’t want to be like the older kids in her school. I try to guess why she might have felt otherwise. Perhaps she wouldn’t have the same friends if she were older. Or maybe because school would get more challenging. But no, it wasn’t either of these.

“What’s wrong with being old, Milagros?”

“Because that means my mom will get older as well!”

Gosh.. what was I thinking when I was in 6th grade? Certainly not about my mom one day growing old. It’s hardly a reality now (probably because my mom is so young and hip) but back then I probably had only two things on my mind; boys and my bra size. But this Milagros, now she knows what’s important.

I pull her back to our English lesson and read the sentences from the board out loud for her to copy. All along she smiles and stops me on the words that she already knows how to spell. Fittingly, she has mastered the sentence, “She is beautiful.”

My Colombia (video)

Here’s a different kind of post that I haven’t done yet. Check out this awesome movie project that I’ve been working on with my students. They got to practice their English skills and tell you all about their beautiful country of Colombia. Check it out and tell me what you think below! Viva Colombia!

“My Colombia”

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Fartsniffing Followers

There are leaders and there are followers in life. Perhaps you will agree. I remember a job interview that made me think deeply about this fact. My potential boss posed the question of how I imagined myself. “Do you see yourself as a leader or a follower?” she asked, tilting her head in interest. I hadn’t thought about that before. Taking a moment to think in order to produce a genuine response, I remember being the Devil’s advocate like any good interviewee does. “There are very few absolutes in life,” I responded. “I think a good leader has the skills to make executive decisions but they should also know how and when to follow. That’s what I’m working on.” And with that, I guess my answer satisfied her enough to trust me with 30 screaming children in a preschool classroom. If only I would have known that I would have been the leader of an adolescent cult strewn together by the common interest of dirty diapers. All jokes aside, the question has stuck with me since that interview. How do I see myself? And does self image really even matter? (Social psychologists are screaming “YES!!” at the top of their lungs right now. But hold onto your panties..)

I watched a TED Talk some months ago which revamped the cliche phrase “Fake it until you make it” to readjust it into less poetic, but more realistic, saying “Fake it until you are it.” I wondered if this were really true. So I tried it out, and (spoiler alert) it just might, perhaps be slightly but mostly true. How do you like that for a happy ending? If ever self image or confidence is lacking, apparently you can just throw yourself into idealistic situations and play the part until magically you’ve become Albert Einstein, Rosa Parks or the next Nelson Mandela. Ok, this is where the ‘mostly true’ part comes in and where the TED Talk is lacking. I don’t believe that such unrealistic goals are possible, but I do think that it holds a lot of truth.

I get comments all of the time about my Peace Corps service and how people wish that they were able to travel and serve others the way that I’m doing now. It’s flattering, really. But it’s also disheartening because I know that they can. I know that what I’m doing seems intimidating and far out there for some. When my virgin ears first heard about the Peace Corps, an inner battle began between my head and my heart, but any romantic out there would agree that the heart always wins. And although my head could see no use in taking a job with a $0.00 paycheck for 27 months, my heart was the overpowering decider. I could find a job to fill my pockets or I could join the Peace Corps to fulfill my heart.

But that didn’t seem to satisfy the butterflies in my stomach. While my head and my heart were caught in a brawl with one another, my stomach was doing somersaults trying to grapple with the very real fact that I would be representing an entire country. Who did I think I was? Barack Obama? Mother Teresa? Malcolm X? Why would the Peace Corps possibly want to choose me; and if they did, could I live up to the expectations of the American tax dollar? (Mr. Washington is quite demanding.) It was then that I decided to be a leader. Sometimes life calls you to face it straight on, dive head first and forget the fact that you might not be the best, but your best is what counts.

It’s easy to take the back seat, to find yourself in a state of mindless tasks while letting others do the work. Why make the effort when somebody else is perfectly capable and willing to do so? This is why: Because all experiences are lost in every opportunity passed, which only takes away from your greatest potential. So take the reins and introduce new ideas, say yes to more things and don’t be afraid to speak up. Although you may have doubts or insecurities, or a list of previous failures, know that those are a part of us all. Don’t fake it until you make it, fake it until you truly are it. If you have a wish, an idea, or a goal, go for it. No second thoughts about it. Our society needs more leaders, not more followers and this world could use a lot more of your bold ideas.

There are followers and there are leaders in life. And, if I may, I’d like to close this by posit one more bit of truth. Let’s not forget to take in the reality that followers tend to get the leaders’ downwind farts. So you choose. After all, nobody wants to be a fart sniffer…

Slow Motion

With the World Cup comes intense passion when you’re surrounded by soccer fans to whom the sport is quite literally a religion. There are no fair weather fans here because Colombia is alive within you the moment the air fills your lungs and the yellow jersey is thrust upon you. So for the first time that Colombia has made it to the World Cup in 16 years, you can imagine what my life has been consumed of for the entire month of June. For the entire 90 minutes, I’m on the edge of my seat, gripping my fists and throwing myself into the air as the ball hits the back of the net. It’s crazy, brilliant chaos.

But at one point during the last game, something caught my attention. I was captured by the quick, lightening-like movement of the players feet but I was even more entranced as the slow motion clips showed on the screen. It almost gave me a hint of anxiety watching as the player’s foot painstakingly wrapped behind the leg of another’s and stuck there as his body kept moving toward the ground. The only thing I wanted was to speed up time to reassure that he would come out perfectly safe, even though I knew very well that this was already the outcome. After all, I had already watched it hadn’t I? But what if I missed something? What if his leg actually snapped in half and I just didn’t see it? So there I was glued to the screen watching a clip of the game at a snail’s pace just to make sure that, indeed, nothing damaging happened. And then I thought to myself that this feeling was familiar. It was something that I felt a lot lately. Much like the moments of playback, my life too often felt like it was playing in slow motion.

I want so desperately to speed my life up; to be able to look back on my service, perhaps, and think “what a ride that was.” But here I sit with anticipation, watching my story unfold not knowing exactly where it will go. My life is truly in slow motion. Will I escape safely like the soccer player in the game, or will I break my leg (figuratively that is, which might look more like a broken heart rather than an injured limb)? I have a dreamed envision of my service, but if I’ve learned anything in the past 10 months, things can certainly change.

They say that the one year mark is always the hardest moment for volunteers. It’s a great determining factor for those who decide that service is not for them or for those who choose to continue on the journey. To be honest, I’ve felt that pressure. I know what’s at home for me and I know what’s here, and believe me the scales are not balanced. It certainly doesn’t help when others are constantly saying “If it makes you happy then do it, if it doesn’t then don’t.”  What does that even mean?? That’s a very surface level understanding to the word ‘commitment.’ There’s no depth in the easy way out, merely a simple escape to current struggles. Those who really understand me know that I need a push. They can put aside their own personal interests of wanting me to come back and encourage me to continue. Now that’s love.

As I was talking with my friend while watching the game, I couldn’t believe that she had been here for 22 months. My meager 10 months seemed minute in comparison. At this slow-motion pace how would I ever reach that? “You will,” she insisted. With that simple, straight forward answer I suppose she’s right. All in due time… But also like the soccer game, I can’t help but constantly second guess how the results will turn out. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.